out and on
by Appointment
Summary: George writes a letter to Fred at the age of twenty-five. For the second half of the Happiest Moment Comp. on the HPFC. Full title: movin'out and movin' on


**A/N: helloooooo this was written as a second entry to the Happiest Moment Competition on the HPFC to see who's gonna place. I hope it's me lol. ermm so this is a letter written to Fred from George at the age of twenty-five. I'm not used to writing in first person AT ALL (even considering this is a letter) so bear with me here, okay? thank you all :) please leave a review, too! **

**OH AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, this is posted on my tumblr so whoever accused me of plagiarism is just a nut-job. **

**okay, i'm finished now. enjoy. **

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><p>Hey, bro.<p>

It's really early right now. I don't sleep in nowadays really. So it's really similar to any other morning.

Except, maybe not. It's May second today.

It would have been five years ago today, that I first saw you cry, though they weren't the sort of tears anybody would often see with a broken ankle or the dying family dog. They were different, and I guess you knew that this time, it'd be different. Some people find it surprising that I can still remember it so clearly, but I've always remembered in photographs – images so bright and so real that they seem as though they were only yesterday. I usually think about it before I go to bed - actually, never mind. _Always_ before I go to bed. I can just pretend I'm sleeping; you know, fake it 'til you make it? But, instead, I see it – the dingy Room of Requirement and your weird shape, hunched over; I wasn't really used to seeing you scared, it never made sense. We were Gred and Forge, remember? Completely fearless.

I see in photographs, and sometimes I have to stop and wonder if that's a gift or a curse.

At the time, I didn't know what was _really_ going on, but I can remember the hands on my shoulders, and the way you whispered through tears that you 'knew'.

'_What do you know, Freddie?_' I had answered, puzzled. _'What?'_

You calmed down, and simply murmured that it was going to be alright. It wasn't though, was it? It was never alright.

And these days, I think I know that deep down, I had known what you had been talking about all along.

Then, I lost you. Well, not exactly – people are never lost, are they? They simply aren't where you'd like them to be. Anyways, I wasn't there. In a way, I wish I was, but then with common sense, I know that if I had been, I would have given up right then and there.

Ron was, though. He still has the scar on his neck from some of the ricocheting debris, and every morning from then I came downstairs, only to look through his sallow eyes and know that it wasn't okay. I sat next to the fire while everyone was in the sitting room with most of the lights off. They were crying, and I was looking through an old and rather dusty photo album.

They cried a little louder, and I felt like they had asked me to come. So, I came up next to them, and I didn't understand what was going on. It hadn't really processed yet, I guess. Mum had stopped crying for a little, and stared with her motherly sort of brown eyes, because she knew I wasn't 'getting it'. They all took me in their arms and cried, and cried some more. Sometimes, I think I just cried then because everyone else was.

You left the day after that, and you didn't take your things with you. Mum packed them away in the attic, far far away from view. I stood outside under the big oak tree where we used to play, and you told me that no matter what happened, you'd always love me. Nobody had heard, though – just me. That's the thing about being a twin; we have that one connection nobody else has. Dad and Bill took you away, though. I didn't see you after that, not for a while at least.

Mum sat on the sitting room floor a lot, in front of the fire where you had sat not so long ago. She drank the kind of tea you liked to drink, only with less sugar. We did like sugar, didn't we?

Sometimes it's a little hard for me to remember. Sorry.

Ron stayed in his room a lot, with Harry. Ginny didn't leave her room much either.

I didn't do much. I sorted through papers and photos and a bunch of things I didn't understand still - like the receipt for a casket. Your casket, actually.

I didn't eat and I didn't sleep, and I didn't know what to do except sit under that tree and look through our things. I came inside later, before I had to go in once again to say goodbye to you. My eyes were darker than usual, my face unshaven and my hair messy. It wasn't quite as red, but then again, it isn't right now either. I think that's because it's just me now – it would look brighter with just another red mop right next to it, wouldn't it?

I saw you, too, though. Your hair wasn't quite as red though, and your freckles weren't quite as – well, they weren't as 'freckl-ey'. You weren't you. You were dead.

I guess it was only then that I had really cried. Just then. So, yeah. I cried, a lot. I missed you.

I miss you now, too. But you knew that.

It was five years ago, but it kind of feels like it repeats itself every time I close my eyes. My chest feels shallow and cold all the time, and I sleep with more blankets than I used to. I'm really different, I guess.

You're pretty different, too. I don't hear from you very much anymore, but that's alright, because sometimes I don't want to hear from you very much, you know? Sometimes I'm mad at you – mad at you for making Mum cry, for leaving Ginny alone, for making Harry hate himself, for everything. And for leaving me alone. Yeah, that's the worst one yet.

At the same time, I just want you to come home and look happy. When I imagine you, you don't look happy anymore. I guess after all that time away, it's hard to look happy.

It's been about six hours since the second of May began, and somehow, all I can think of is how much I want you to come back and finish my sentence or tell me a joke. One or the other, but both would be nice.

Can you believe it? This is the only letter I've written to you since you left. I can't.

I miss you Fred.

It's hard to get to the point when we haven't spoken for all this time. But I guess I'm writing this because I wanted to tell you that I'm moving out – moving away, really.

There's way too much here – too much of _us_. I don't like all the _past us_ when there isn't a _present us_, or a _future us_. It's just a present me, and a future me. It's really lonely, bro.

So, I guess this is it for now.

Bye, Fred.

Oh, and just one more thing – I know how you just _hate_ long-winded letters – I love you.


End file.
